


i know it's cold (but i don't mind)

by unprofessionalbard



Category: Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: (mostly) Canon Compliant, F/F, canon typical violence/combat, to be honest it's probably closer to a G rating but i am too lazy to double check and reassess it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 18:21:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20679842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unprofessionalbard/pseuds/unprofessionalbard
Summary: “We’re just up by Free Heap,” says Varga, hefting the Stormbird talon. “I can work on this out here, but it might be more comfortable over there.”Aloy wipes the sweat off her brow; Varga swears electricity clings to her, that she can almost hear crackling in the desert air. Leftover from the Stormbird, maybe. Aloy’s hair looks like fire when it’s framed by the sunset.“And I think we could both use a real rest,” agrees Aloy.





	i know it's cold (but i don't mind)

Aloy likes watching Varga work. 

She’s modified weapons herself before, of course— you learn some tinkering as a hunter, if only so you don’t get hunted. Aloy’s always considered herself fairly adept, too, but Varga… Varga is something else. Her hands seem to have memorized where to go and what to do, moving completely of their own accord as she chats to Aloy about her work, barely even looking at what she’s doing. 

“...and hypothetically, if you flipped this piece around, the burst would be more powerful— but you’d only get to do it once before it blew you up with it,” Varga says, flipping the metal over in her hands before lining it up.

“Not ideal,” says Aloy, eyes moving from Varga’s hands to her face; bright, open. 

“That’s putting it mildly.” Varga grins, continuing to walk Aloy through the process, never too technical that Aloy couldn’t understand it, but not detailed enough that she really understands how to do it herself. Not that she’d try— being able to put together a weapon like that is a combination of years of experience that Aloy doesn’t have combined with a creative spark that Aloy has never indulged in a way that would be useful here. 

“How do you even come up with this stuff?” asks Aloy, when the conversation lulls. She doesn’t mean it to sound as rude as it does, but when Varga looks at her, she must see the admiration in her eyes, because her grin never falters. 

“What, the weapons?” When Aloy nods, Varga continues, “Oseram trade secret,” with a wink. “Also, I’m just that good.” As if to highlight her words, she sets one of the pieces spinning like a top on the worktable, before hitting it with exactly the right timing that it slides across the table and clicks into place in the mechanism. 

“And modest,” says Aloy, deadpan, and Varga laughs, drawing a laugh out of Aloy too. 

The work is over a little too soon for Aloy’s tastes, but when Varga passes off the improved forgefire, the thrum of it in her hands almost makes up for it. 

“Wow,” she says, breathless.

“You haven’t even used her yet,” says Varga, “Let me know how she works.” A slight pause, and then, “See you at the Thunderjaw site?”

“After what you did to this?” Aloy hefts the Forgefire, holding it a little higher. “Of course.”

* * *

It’s a long trek even to get out of the Cut, let alone hike all the way out to the nearest Thunderjaw site. Aloy takes her time, revisiting some ancient ruins along the way, hunting, resting. She gets a chance to try out the new Forgefire on a pack of Watchers, and it’s hardly even a fight; none of them even get a scratch on her before they’re charred to pieces. 

She gets there eventually, and spots Varga’s camp some ways up the cliff face— far enough up that the machines won’t see her, but close enough to keep an eye on things. The climb is fairly straightforward, at least for Aloy, and when she arrives at the makeshift campsite, Varga is already on her feet.

“Aloy!” She waves Aloy over, greeting her with a wide smile that Aloy returns with a tired one of her own. “Well, there’s our man,” Varga points down the hill to the Thunderjaw. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Aloy pulls her bow off her back, nocking three arrows and crouching low to the ground. “I’m always ready.” And sure, it’s a bit of a brag, but with Varga it just feels like well-earned pride. Varga’s eyes sparkle and she pulls out her own weapon, letting Aloy go on ahead. She skids down a bit lower than the camp, staying high enough to be out of range of the Thunderjaw’s feet while keeping it in range of her weapons. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches Varga keep heading down, getting closer, weapon at the ready. 

Aloy looses her arrows. The resounding roar from the machine shakes the rockface, and it turns its head toward her, eyes a vibrant red. Blood pounds through her head as she draws more arrows, taking aim with a practiced precision, dodging and weaving cannon blasts with ease. 

She draws back her bow and the Thunderjaw roars and spins before she even fires— Aloy drops her bow slightly to look closer. At its feet is Varga, rolling just out of reach of the Thunderjaw’s stomps and tail swipes. She must sink another hit because the Thunderjaw wails, charging up the disc launcher and spinning around, missing Varga by a mile. 

Aloy laughs, and it costs her just a second too long— she takes a blow from the disc launcher right to the chest. It knocks her back, slams her into the rock behind her, her armour’s alarm ringing in her ears. 

Her grin gains an animal edge— teeth bared, more warning than expression. The next two arrows take the disc launchers off, and then Varga pulls its attention long enough for Aloy to switch weapons. 

The Forgefire is warm to the touch when she fires it up, skidding down the rock face to the next plateau down. 

“Varga!” she yells, only barely able to see the other woman from this height. “Bring it into range!” She fires a burst of flame so Varga can see what she’s talking about, then takes aim. 

Varga wastes no time in running the Thunderjaw over to her, and Aloy has only seconds to get the shot lined up before the Thunderjaw can see the whites of her eyes— so she narrows them, and fires. Shot after shot until the flames start melting the wire casings and the whole machine sparks. It roars and Aloy ducks behind a boulder to get cover from canon fire, switching back to her bow. 

When Aloy stands back up she can see the arrows sticking out of its heart, armour over it long since ripped off. On the ground, Varga weaves between the Thunderjaw’s feet. Aloy moves forward in alarm as the Thunderjaw swings to catch her with its tail, but Varga just ducks under it and laughs. 

Aloy nocks three more arrows, and backs up until she hits the rock face behind her, before taking a run and leaping off, firing mid air and drawing another just as quick. She hits the hill face and her momentum slides her downhill. In the chaos, the Thunderjaw fires another canon blast at the spot in the air above her, and she lets the last arrow fly. 

The data nexus shatters. The Thunderjaw slams to the ground at Aloy’s feet as she grinds to a halt and stands up straight, shouldering her bow and moving towards the jaw, stripping machine parts like second nature. 

“Not bad,” says Varga, from behind her, panting slightly. “I can see where you get your reputation.” The admiration is clear in her voice; a mirror image of Aloy’s own back in Longnotch.

Normally, this kind of talk gets under Aloy’s skin— the conversations her skill so often devolve into something akin to worship. Stories that are supposed to be compliments just serve to make her feel lonely. 

Varga just thinks she’s a hunter. A damn good hunter, but a hunter all the same. 

“Couldn’t have done it without your Forgefire,” says Aloy, loosening the mandibles and prying them free. “Got your part. Never thought I’d be happy to see the inside of a Thunderjaw’s mouth.”

“You don’t have to be modest,” replies Varga, “But she was pretty sweet, wasn’t she.” Varga takes the Icerail from Aloy’s outstretched hands, and for a second looks like she’s about to start working there in the middle of the field, before glancing up and saying, “We should probably head back to the camp, huh?”

“Probably,” confirms Aloy, and Varga laughs, slinging the weapon over her shoulder and tucking the part under her arm. The two of them make the short climb up to Varga’s camp, and Aloy gets a fire going while Varga gets to making improvements. Aloy lets her muscle memory tend the fire, watching Varga with fascinated eyes as she patches up the Icerail. 

Varga talks while she works. Mostly about the Icerail, but she strays every now and again, with a story about Burgrend or the Claim— or with a question.

“So, how’s being Chieftian of a werak?”

Aloy makes a face. “It’s… necessary.”

“You don’t sound that excited about it.” 

“Perceptive.” It comes off ruder than Aloy intends it too, but Varga takes it in stride, offering a small snort. “Not really my thing. I’m already responsible for… for too many things. I didn’t really want to add a Banuk werak to that list.”

“Responsible for what?” asks Varga. When Aloy doesn’t respond, she tacks on, “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me. You can pretend I asked your favourite food instead.”

Aloy smiles briefly, before furrowing her brows. “No, it’s— it’s fine, it’s just… complicated. Very complicated. There’s a lot of doors that don’t open for anyone else that have to be walked through by someone.”

“So you’re someone.”

“I’m someone,” confirms Aloy.

“So what would you want to do if you weren’t someone?”

Aloy blinks. “You know, I haven’t really thought about it.” She pauses, and laughs, and then says, “Probably a lot of the same things. I have a lot of questions that are only answered by… by, uh, being someone, I guess.”

“What about when you get all the answers?”

“Lot of hard questions, Varga.”

“I did say you could tell me what your favourite food is. Besides, that one isn’t even that hard. Everyone has stuff they want to do if they could take a break from what they have to do.”

“Yeah? What would you do?”

“Go to Meridian,” says Varga immediately. “I went before the Red Raids when I was a kid, on a trading trip, but I haven’t been since. I think there’d be a lot to see there. A lot to learn.”

Varga is laser focused on her work, but Aloy sees a hunger in her eyes. Desite Varga’s ‘easy question’ quip, she too answered with a goal. To learn more, to get something out of that trip. Aloy supposes she’d like to travel, to see more of the world, but that, too, feels goal driven. 

“I like turkey. Easy enough for me to hunt and eat on my own, still tastes good with minimal other ingredients, works as its own meal and also with other foods.” Aloy pauses, and then says, “What was your trip to Meridian like?” 

Varga launches into a story, and it seems like no time at all before she’s putting the finishing touches on the Icerail and handing it over. 

“...now, it shoots spikes of frozen ice.”

Aloy inspects it herself, before spinning in her seat and firing a bolt out into the valley below. Sure enough, a spike of ice fires out and shatters against a tree, audible even from this distance (she also alerts a couple Watchers, but none of them are close enough to find the camp in their search for a source, so she ignores them). 

“This is some impressive craftsmanship.” 

“It’s how she should have been running this whole time,” quips Varga, and then adds, “Don’t tell anyone I said that. I doubt Aratak would care for me insulting his weapon.” 

Aloy laughs, shouldering the Icerail. “Stormbird next, right?” She gets to her feet, and Varga’s expression changes, just slightly.

“Yeah. But, you know,” Varga says, “It’s a long walk to the Stormbird site. I could use the company, if you want to travel together.” 

Aloy almost says no. She travels faster alone, and she could make more stops on her own, has less to worry about with Varga absent. 

But after these weapon improvements, it’s unlikely she’ll cross paths with Varga that much. Perhaps it’s best to make the most of the time while she has it— after all, having time is not that common in Aloy’s life. 

So she doesn’t say no. 

Instead, she says, “I’d like that,” and finds, to even her own surprise, that she’s telling the truth.

* * *

Varga gets the sense that Aloy doesn’t travel with other people very often. The square of her shoulders and the look in her eyes is one of someone who’s had to fend for herself for a long time, someone who has to watch her own back lest there be a machine claw sticking out of it. She’s coiled like a spring, or a cobra, ready to strike at any second. She sleeps on her back, with one hand on her bow. Relaxing seems to be a conscious effort on her part, and one that takes a lot of energy to boot. 

It’s most apparent when they run into machines. Along the way, they run into a pack of Watchers. The second the first one spots them and calls to the others, Aloy ducks and rolls, bow at the ready; a split second later, Varga has her own bow out, but Aloy has basically vanished, and Varga has no idea where until watchers start going down around her. 

The fight doesn’t last very long.

Varga drives a spear into a Watcher, and Aloy’s arrow flies through the air beside her; if that Watcher had still been there, the arrow surely would’ve shattered its eye. Aloy holds her bow up for a few seconds longer, another arrow already nocked. Then she lowers it, breathing heavy. 

“Thanks,” she says. 

“Don’t worry about it. Besides, you would’ve had it handled.”

Aloy looks troubled for a moment as she slots her arrow back into its quiver. “Mhm,” she says, and then they continue on their way.

Later, they run across a group of Broadheads, and Aloy gets a grin on her face that could almost be called mischievous. “Stay here, and watch this,” she says, and Varga raises her eyebrows, but nods. She follows Aloy’s progress through the tall grass surrounding the herd, closer and closer until the nearest Broadhead is barely a foot away— then she raises her spear, pointing the butt at the Broadhead. Varga can’t see very well from this distance, but widens her eyes at the way the casing and tubing starts to change colour, glowing bright blue. 

Quick as a flash, Aloy grabs the Broadhead’s horn, and before Varga can even gasp, she swings herself over the Broadhead and rides it back over to Varga’s vantage spot. 

“How did you do that?”

Aloy shrugs, producing her spear and showing it to Varga, albeit at a slight distance. Varga catches the waver in her hands and doesn’t reach for it, even though she desperately wants a closer look. “This does it. It’s basically what the Corruptors do. This part is from a Corruptor, actually.”

Varga lets out an appreciative whistle, and says, “I knew you’d made some modifications to it but this…” she trails off and turns her attention to the Broadhead. “I’ve never seen a living one up close like this before.” Tinkering has you develop and appreciation for fine craft, and regardless of the threat they posed, machines are a technical marvel. Rumors of tame machines had floated around— even ones about Aloy specifically, how she could command machines with a single look— but Varga had never thought she’d actually see it. 

“Are you going to keep inspecting the wiring or take the free ride?” Aloy’s voice is dry, but when Varga looks up, a wry smile graces her face, and she extends her hand.

“Limited time offer, is it?” 

“I don’t make it to just anyone.”

Varga grabs Aloy’s hand and hauls herself up behind her, grinning all the while. 

“Hold on,” says Aloy, and before Varga can even ask ‘to what’, Aloy kicks the sides of the Broadhead to get it moving, and Varga puts her arms around Aloy’s waist to avoid getting thrown off by the machine. She laughs as the landscape rushes by them and swears she can feel Aloy smile. 

Eventually, Varga gets the motion of the machine and doesn’t have to hang on so tight (also, it helps that they’re not going at the Broadhead’s top speed anymore), although Aloy doesn’t seem to mind either way. They don’t talk much during the ride, but it’s a comfortable silence, so Varga can’t say she minds. 

It’s early evening by the time they reach the site, and Varga turns her eyes to the skies. 

“There’s the Stormbird,” says Varga, pointing, and Aloy puts her hands up to shield her eyes from the sun, following Varga’s gesture. She grins, and Varga almost feels sorry for the Stormbird they’re about to take down. 

“Let’s see what this thing can do,” says Aloy, sliding off the Broadhead and pulling out the newly-improved Icerail. Varga’s grin grows until it’s a mirror of Aloy’s. 

They make quick work of the Stormbird; the Icerail does her job, and Varga keeps the Stormbird busy so Aloy can reload and charge the weapon up, and it seems like no time at all before it crashes to the ground, sparks dancing across its body fizzling out. Aloy is there in a flash, first prying off the talon and then sifting through the rest of the bird. By the time Varga scrambles over Aloy is sat atop its head, carefully removing the lens before popping it in her bag. 

“Good haul?” asks Varga, and Aloy looks up, grins, and then pushes herself off the machine, tossing Varga the talon once she hits the ground. 

“Heart is shattered to pieces, but otherwise yes.” She turns and looks at it. “Could use a few more minutes to look through it.” 

“I’m not in a rush,” says Varga, so Aloy smiles and goes back to stripping the Stormbird. Varga takes the time to have a closer look at their Broadhead, who almost seems… pleased with the attention it’s getting. Varga pats its head fondly on a whim just as Aloy turns up beside her, hands covered in oil and coils of wire slung over her shoulder. 

“Stormslinger?” says Aloy, wiping her hands on her shirt. Varga is about to nod, and it suddenly strikes her that after this, Aloy is probably going to vanish off the face of the Earth as suddenly as she came. 

So instead, she gives a counter-offer. 

“We’re just up by Free Heap,” says Varga, hefting the Stormbird talon. “I can work on this out here, but it might be more comfortable over there.”

Aloy wipes the sweat off her brow; Varga swears electricity clings to her, that she can almost hear crackling in the desert air. Leftover from the Stormbird, maybe. Aloy’s hair looks like fire when it’s framed by the sunset. 

“And I think we could both use a real rest,” agrees Aloy.

* * *

The sun has disappeared over the horizon by the time Aloy and Varga arrive at Free Heap, but Petra welcomes them both warmly anyway, giving them a hot meal and a place to stay. Although it seems almost everyone else has eaten already, their table gathers a small crowd and a lively conversation. Not just for Aloy, either; Varga is recognized and welcomed too, if less widely. It’s been a few years since she visited, and as far as Aloy knows, didn’t blow anything up while she was in town. 

“So, how are Banuk lands?” asks Petra. Aloy exchanges a look with Varga. 

“Cold,” she says. 

Varga adds on, “Literally and metaphorically. But more literally.” Aloy lets out a laugh that’s a little closer to a snort and Varga continues, “It’s not so bad if you’re stubborn enough for it, but a break is nice.”

“What brings you two all the way out here?” asks Beladga, taking a sip from Jorgriz’s cup of scrappersap, which he doesn’t seem to notice. “Long way to come for a break— not that we’re complaining.”

“Machine hunting,” says Aloy, “Varga needs specific parts to fix up some weapons.”

“Giving up on your bow, Flame-hair?”

Aloy has a mouth full of food, so she just rolls her eyes at Petra. This turns out to be all the response she needs, because Petra just laughs before turning to Varga. 

“You fix weapons?”

“Well— it’s less fixing and more redesigning. I don’t mend broken parts, I try to improve on the weapon itself. Or make my own.” 

“Even better. After we’re done here, wanna take a look over Free Heap’s defenses?”

Even in the dark, Varga’s eyes practically gleam. “Absolutely.”

Varga gasps when she gets her hands on the cannon, pouring over it with the same fascination she had with the Stormslinger and the Icerail, magnified by several. “She’s gorgeous. Have you got to use her yet?”

Petra nods at Aloy. “Aloy had a go when we were fending off a bandit clan.”

Varga’s eyes widen as she turns to Aloy. “You did? How was she?”

“Powerful,” says Aloy, and then, after a pause, “Really heavy.”

Varga laughs, turning back to the cannon. “I’m sure you handled her well.” Pride bleeds through her voice, and Varge starts asking Petra about the design before Aloy can respond. Instead, she just smiles, and if it’s more fondness for Varga than self-satisfaction, it’s a bit too dark for anyone to pick out the difference.

* * *

Varga doesn’t get a chance to work on the Stormslinger until much later that night, when her and Aloy have been given a room and a couple cots to sleep on. Aloy tells her that she can just work on it tomorrow but Varga insists that she’s fine, that it’s relaxing, that she’s more than happy to work on it. She sits herself down on the floor, tools spread out in front of her, and gets to work. 

Aloy doesn’t protest. Instead, she sits on the floor too, back leaned against her cot, and she watches Varga’s craftsmanship again. 

“You don’t have to stay up with me,” says Varga, and Aloy shrugs.

“It’s not that late. Besides, I like seeing your work.” Varga stops momentarily and looks up at Aloy, and Aloy makes an amendment. “Unless you don’t want me to st—”

“No— ” interjects Varga, “That’s— it’s totally fine. I was just worried you’d get bored.”

Aloy laughs at that, and then says, “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.” 

So Varga keeps working. Her chatting is more sporadic, and less about the work and more just small talk. And while Aloy would not call herself talkative, Varga has a talent for coaxing conversation out of her. 

Maybe that’s the wrong word. It’s hardly coaxing if Aloy goes out of her way to talk.

“What’s the Claim like?” 

Varga shrugs. “It is what it is.”

“A glowing review.” 

A smile creeps onto Varga’s face and she says, “Yeah yeah. Honestly, It’s kind of whatever. I haven’t been back for any significant amount of time in three or four years now. I’m not sure what to make of it.”

“Did you grow up there?”

Varga nods. “Yeah. Well, after the Red Raids started, anyway, our clan moved pretty far north to keep clear of the Carja. But when I was really little Po— Burgrend and I used to travel, and we sort of picked up again in the last few years. I think I like it better; I mean, I was doing my own thing anyway, being out of the Claim just means less people breathing down my neck about it.” 

“Breathing down your neck?”

“Oh, yeah. Never people whose opinions I cared about or anything, so I just kept doing whatever, but people sure are nosy.” Varga’s voice is fond, if a little exasperated. “If Burgrend has one redeeming quality, it’s that I definitely have no shortage of independence.” The tone stays the same, but Aloy remembers something Varga had said about the Forgefire. _I was feeling like I neglected her, and that’s a little too close to my family life._ “Now that I say it, that seems mean. He’s got other redeeming qualities.” 

“Very convincing.” 

Varga laughs, and then shrugs. “I mean. Parents. What can you do? Like I said, we’re better as business partners. And I prefer to keep the Claim on a ‘visitation only’ sort of status.” 

Aloy reflects on the Oseram she knows for a moment, and then says, “I’d like to visit one day, maybe.”

“What, the Claim?” Varga glances up and laughs. “Take me with you if you do. You’d certainly shake things up.”

“Old habits die hard.” It’d be novel for Aloy to go somewhere and not shake things up. 

“Touché.” Varga works in silence for a moment, nose crinkling up before she flips over the Stormslinger. “How are Nora lands?”

“Shitty,” says Aloy, and Varga laughs. Despite herself, Aloy smiles. “The world is… huge. Massive. And the Sacred Land is...” 

“Small?”

“Ill-fitting,” confirms Aloy. “Like boots a few sizes too small. Not for me.” Not anymore. Arguably not ever. Maybe she’ll eventually be happy to visit the Sacred Lands like Varga seems happy to visit the Claim. For now, though— “I’m glad I left.”

“At the risk of sounding rude, I’m glad you left too.” Varga doesn’t look up from her work, but her hands slow. This time, it’s Aloy’s turn to laugh, and Varga regains her rhythm at the sound. “Find anything particularly interesting in the world?”

_People_, is Aloy’s first thought, _the other tribes and towns and the people in them, the ones I’ve helped and who’ve helped me, the friends— friends— I have now. You._

“Fired that huge cannon,” she quips. “And I’ve been inside a couple cauldrons.”

Varga stops working and looks at Aloy, mouth agape, eyes alight. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” says Aloy, “I’ll show you sometime, if you want.” It’s offhand, and she almost expects Varga to decline— everyone does. Aloy is used to it now. She tries not to mind; it’s not like she can force other people to care about the knowledge she has about the Old Ones, and it's not like most people would take well to all of it anyway.

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Aloy starts. There’s no trace of insincerity in Varga’s expression, just excitement— and curiosity. Tentatively, Aloy smiles back. “It’s a plan.” 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and then Varga pulls a coil of wire tighter, hooking it into the trigger mechanism before letting out a sigh and lifting the weapon up to the lamplight.

“Alright,” she says, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “She’s finished.” Rather than stand up, Varga uses her feet to slide closer to Aloy, handing her the weapon with a tired smile. Aloy grabs it and there’s a pang in her chest— shame they aren’t outside so she could test it. She decides to give it a go first thing in the morning, but the resolution doesn’t quell the feeling. Before Aloy can think of a response, Varga says, “Back to the Cut tomorrow?”

Aloy is tempted. A trip back to the Cut with Varga sounds… good. Really good. 

“I have some business in the Sundom I should take care of first,” she says instead.

Varga takes it in stride, and says brightly, “I’ll see you when you’re back there, then.” She gets to her feet and dusts herself off, nudging the tools still strewn about the room into a pile with her feet to deal with in the morning. “We should probably get some rest.” 

For a moment, a note of finality hangs in the air; Aloy wishes the work weren’t done yet, wishes it had taken another hour, or two, or three, wishes they were up until the sun was up with them. But the moment passes and Aloy shakes her head clear. 

“Probably,” says Aloy, pushing herself to her feet as well; her legs ache a bit from sitting on them for so long, but it’s a good ache. Aloy takes her time getting ready for bed; it’s so rare for her to have it, after all. When she clambers into her cot and casts a last glance at Varga, the other woman is already asleep. 

It’s been a long time since Aloy slept on anything other than her bedroll, and longer still since she’s shared a room with anyone else. Varga’s cot is across the room, but she still feels so close, like she’s lying right next to Aloy. It’s… intimate. 

Aloy turns over in her cot and tries to get some sleep. It’s the first time in awhile that she’s comfortable enough to sleep with her back to the door.

* * *

Goodbyes in the morning are unceremonious. Both of them grab some food for the road, refusing the offer to stay longer. The sky has just barely turned from pink to blue when Varga and Aloy have to part ways. 

“Thanks for all you did with these weapons, Varga,” says Aloy. 

Varga waves her hand. “Don’t mention it. I feel like I should be thanking you— I haven’t had this much fun in ages.” 

“It was a pretty good trip,” agrees Aloy, and then glances off towards the path into the sundom. “You’re headed back to Longnotch?”

“Uh-huh. Maybe Song’s Edge for a bit, visit Burgrend on my way in or something, but eventually I’ll be back in Longnotch.” 

“I’ll see you when I’m headed through, then,” says Aloy, instead of a goodbye, and starts walking off. 

“Aloy—” Varga starts, and then suddenly realizes she doesn’t know what she’s trying to say. Aloy spins on her heels, eyebrows raised, expression expectant. 

_Goodbye. Be safe. Wish we had longer._

“Keep those weapons in tip-top shape, yeah? If they’re broken when I see you again you won’t hear the last of it.”

Aloy laughs, and then gives a mock salute. “Yes Ma’am.” 

She turns again, headed off down the opposite path. And if Varga watches her go for a bit too long, there’s no one around but the rabbits to see.

* * *

After Varga has returned, she sees Aloy every once in awhile around the Cut. But she only travels between Song’s Edge and Longnotch, with occasional stops out at smaller camps. Aloy… seems to be everywhere. Her reputation precedes her, and with it, whispers of a bigger one following her from the Sacred Lands. The more Varga hears about Aloy, the less she knows. 

“Varga.” When Aloy greets her in Song’s Edge, it’s with a smile and sigh of relief, and Varga decides she doesn’t much care for speculating about Aloy. She knows Aloy is smart and good at what she does and glad to see her and that’s more than enough. 

“Aloy. Hear you took out the Claws Beneath.”

Aloy grimaces. “Already? News travels fast.”

“Would you feel better if I said it didn’t impress me?”

Aloy cracks a grin. “Honestly, yes.”

“Doesn’t sound that hard. Bet I could do it.” Varga can only hold a straight face for a couple seconds before she laughs, Aloy laughing with her. 

“I bet you could too,” says Aloy, and Varga blinks at the sincerity. 

“So,” she says, opting to change the subject instead, “What now?”

Aloy’s expression gets a little more worn, and she looks off towards Longnotch. “Aratak, Ourea, and I are headed to Thunder’s Drum to get to the bottom of this Daemon mystery.”

Varga blinks at her; the near slaughter of the last full werak who went to Thunder’s Drum is well-known; she doesn’t doubt it’s the first thing Aloy heard about when she arrived in the Cut. “Just the three of you? Aren’t you chieftain?” The _can’t you bring more people_ is implied in her tone. 

Aloy nods. “I can’t ask anyone else to put their lives on the line for this.”

Varga doesn’t bother telling her that that’s dangerous. Aloy is not an idiot. Instead, she pulls Aloy in for a hug; the other woman freezes for a second, before hugging Varga back. 

“I’d say good luck, but I don’t think you’ll need it.” Varga pulls back, and Aloy laughs. 

“I can use all the luck I can get,” says Aloy. 

“Good luck then,” responds Varga, and with a smile, Aloy is gone, headed towards Longnotch.

* * *

When Thunder’s Drum breaks apart, Varga wouldn’t be surprised if they could hear it from Ban-Ur. Longnotch is one of the smallest camps in the Cut, so it’s only moments before everyone is outside, waiting, watching. 

The news of Ourea’s death seems to come before Aloy and Aratak even arrive. Grief sweeps through the camp with them; wordless, heavy. Aratak leaves immediately. Varga only has a brief conversation with Aloy, where she says she aims to get to Song’s Edge by nightfall. Varga squeezes her hand before she goes. A small comfort in the face of the winding path in front of Aloy. 

Aloy accepts it anyway, squeezing her hand back and offering a small smile. 

Varga barely sees Aloy over the next month. Just glimpses here and there, quick hellos and brief exchanges before Aloy has to keep running to the next target; the Daemon’s influence still hangs heavy over the Cut, and the faster Aloy gets out there to pull it back, the better. 

At the tail end of the month, Varga catches Aloy at the end of a meeting with Naltuk, weary face stretching into a grin when Varga waves at her. 

“Aloy! How are those weapons treating you?”

“Done right by me so far.” Aloy grins, reaching over her shoulder to tap the Icerail. “Finished off the last of the Fireclaws with this just yesterday.”

So it’s over, then. “Don’t suppose you’d want to hang around here a bit longer, grab a meal?”

Aloy tilts her head and says, “I know just the place.”

* * *

The place, as it turns out, is grabbing their meals as soon as they’re off the fire and climbing basically up a rock face. It’s not a hard climb, but the Banuk are also allergic to just installing a straightforward ladder, preferring winding handholds that require expert precision. Also, they’re carrying hot food with them. 

It takes a few minutes longer than normal before Aloy drops to a platform, Varga close behind. The height is dizzying; they’re just below Sekuli’s rock painting now. Aloy sits down with her back against the rock face, and Varga settles next to her. 

“Is it just me, or is this platform moving?”

“Eh, a little. I try not to think about it, to be honest. The view is nice.” 

Varga looks out over the Cut; the Icerasps, in the distance, Thunder’s Drum, still looming over the horizon despite the top being blown off. The sun reflecting off the snow, trees barely visible through the gleam and the clouds. She glances back at Aloy, also looking over the Cut, the way her face looks while she’s lost in thought. 

“Can’t argue with that,” Varga says, and digs into her meal. 

Aloy doesn’t mention her long-term plans until just before she says goodbye; she doesn’t need to, really. Varga knows well enough that she’s not staying. 

“Well, I’m off,” says Aloy, once they’re back down on solid ground.

“You’re leaving the Cut?” It’s more of a statement than a question; a prompt for Aloy to tell her more, the setup to an invitation.

Aloy nods. “I have to go back to the Sundom, and then…” She trails off, exhaustion written all over her face. “Then I’m not sure.”

Varga nods. “Look me up next time you’re here, alright?” 

“I don’t know how long that will be, but I will.” Aloy’s answer is swift, and from what she knows, that’s more than most people get from her. The way Aloy acts seems at odds with the rumors surrounding her— and Varga has seen her firsthand in a fight, but she can’t shake that Aloy is just… someone she cares about. Someone she wants to see again. 

Someone who wants to see her again. 

Varga leans in on an impulse and kisses Aloy’s cheek, before stepping back and turning on her heels, prepared to head back into town. 

“Varga, wait—” Aloy catches Varga’s hand and Varga stops, turning back around to look at Aloy. Her eyes are forge-set— whether like the iron or the fire, Varga isn’t sure. Aloy’s free hand goes to her ear and she pulls off the device that rests on her temple, stuffing it in her pocket. 

She pulls Varga in and kisses her. A proper kiss, a real one that makes Varga’s head spin, has her interlocking her fingers behind Aloy’s neck, tangled in Aloy’s hair. Aloy’s hands are warm on Varga’s waist, even through the layers of clothes she’s wearing to keep out the chills. 

Aloy breaks first, pulling back and offering a soft smile. “I’ll, uh… I’ll be seeing you.” 

And then she’s gone, snow swirling in her wake.

The frost bites, but it’s several hours before Varga feels the cold.

* * *

It’s nearly a year before Aloy makes her way back to the Cut. It’s out of her way to say the least— a long trek back from the Forbidden West. But she could use the break. 

Break. Aloy laughs to herself as she makes the climb up to Song’s Edge. Not many people would consider the harsh climate here a break. The horn sounds her ascent up the mountain. 

“Outlander— here to take back the werak?” asks the guard as she passes. Aloy recognizes her face, although they’ve never been formally introduced. 

“Hopefully not,” she calls back, “But it’s not off the table.”

The guard laughs, and Aloy starts on the final stretch before Song’s Edge. 

Since her last trip north, the Cut has gotten busier; the tents start earlier and stretch farther, and although the people out and about are mostly Banuk, Aloy spots a few more outlanders than she’s used to. 

Whispers travel faster than she walks and by the time she reaches the centre of Song’s Edge, Aratak is already waiting for her. He gives her a nod, and she jogs to meet him. 

“Aratak.”

“Aloy. What brings you back to the Cut?”

Aloy shrugs, and then, after seeing Aratak’s expression, adds, “Sometimes I go places for reasons other than finding trouble.” This doesn’t get a laugh out of Aratak, but it does get a slight smirk, so Aloy will take it. “How have you been? Since we last met?”

“Since Meridian, you mean. Well enough. Healing.” He gestures around. “The land is healing too, although we still occasionally find an ancient machine that dug itself out of the ground. Lifeless, but they’re a reminder nonetheless.”

Aloy nods. The same machines litter the Sundom, although more and more are stripped for parts and dismantled every day. Still, the work is unsettling, and finding an intact one even more so. 

“Glad you’re well.”

“Are you staying long?” asks Aratak, and when Aloy shrugs, continues, “Cyan would be pleased to see you again, if you have the time.”

Aloy nods. “I’ll stop by as soon as I can. Has she… told you much? About herself?”

Aratak’s gaze drifts to somewhere in the middle distance. “Still slowly. More, since I returned from the Battle of Meridian. Still, we get the sense that she has a lot to say, but is not sure how to say it.” 

Aloy can appreciate that. It’s hard to communicate with people who have entirely different vocabularies and beliefs to describe something. Although at the very least, the Banuk seemed more receptive to Cyan than the Nora to Aloy. Then again, that was not a high bar to pass.

“I’m sure it’s difficult for her to express,” she says.

“I won’t keep you,” says Aratak, “I know I’m not the only one who will be pleased to see you.” 

Aloy smiles. She’s missed this place, windchill and all. 

The rest of the day passes similarly; she says hello to Naltuk and Sekuli. Naltuk is comfortable in his role of Shaman, and although he claims he’s not filling Ourea’s shoes very well, it’s pretty obvious he’s well-respected. Sekuli’s paintings span twice the rockface they did before. One of them depicts Ourea, and although neither of them mention it, the two of them share a moment and Aloy lingers on it a bit longer than the others.

She tries to track down Burgrend, but he’s nowhere to be found; one of the other merchants says that he’s left the Cut, but doesn’t know if or when he’ll be back. Frustrated with the lack of information, she tracks down Aratak again.

“Aratak— is Burgrend still staying here, or did he go back to the Claim?”

“Here. He’s on some sort of business trip, but I don’t think we could shake him if we tried. Especially since Song’s Edge has gotten busier.” Aratak’s voice isn’t fond by any means, but it indicates… toleration, at the very least, of Burgrend’s continued presence. “If you’re looking for Varga, she’s in Longnotch, I believe,” continues Aratak. Aloy narrows her eyes slightly; she hadn’t even asked yet. Aratak gives her a look that’s somewhere between unimpressed and amused. “You said goodbye to her in the middle of Song’s Edge.” 

Ah. Well, that was true enough. Aloy’s face is almost hot, the wind is so icy. “You didn’t strike me as the gossiping type.”

“I _don’t_ gossip,” says Aratak. “But I don’t promise the same of everyone. Nor do I plug my ears when others are talking.” 

“Alright, alright,” says Aloy. “Thanks for the information. I’ll see you around.” 

“Good luck,” calls Aratak as she walks away. Aloy decides to ignore that.

* * *

Longnotch is a relatively short Charger ride. Snow gets into her boots when she dismounts, but she’s too preoccupied to care at the moment. Instead she gives the Charger a pat on the head and heads into the camp, wet boots be damned. 

Although Song’s Edge is bustling, Longnotch is about the same. Maybe an extra tent, if that, or maybe an existing tent just got replaced with a slightly larger one. It’s hard to tell. Aloy scans the crowd, if you could call it that. 

Varga is just at the main campfire, across from Aloy but talking to the woman next to her, warming her hands on the fire. She’s got a new scar on her face and she’s picked up a Banuk coat that, despite not matching very well with her Oseram gear (Aloy thinks, anyway, not that she has much of an eye for fashion), looks really good on her. 

For a half second, Aloy pauses. A year is a long time. A lot can happen in a year. Does Varga even want to see her again? What is she supposed to say? She’d warned Varga that she didn’t know when she’d be back, but—

Varga glances up from her conversation and locks eyes with her, grin spreading across her face a split second later. “Aloy?”

“Last time I checked.”

Varga excuses herself from her conversation and gets to her feet, heading over as fast as the snow will allow her. Aloy barely has to take a few steps before they are face to face. When she reaches Aloy, she stops, the year of time between them stretched wire-taut.

“Been awhile,” says Varga, but not with a tone that would require Aloy to make any excuses. Just a fact; nothing more and nothing less. “How are those weapons treating you?”

Aloy smiles, and echoes herself from a year ago. “Done right by me so far. I missed the company they came with, though.” 

Varga pulls Aloy in for a hug. Aloy hugs back and they stand there for a second, silent in gratitude that the other survived the year. Eventually, Varga pulls back, although her hands still linger on Aloy’s arms. 

“What have you been up to? Besides, you know, the Battle of Meridian.”

“Cleaning up after the Battle of Meridian. And then… tying up some loose ends.” For a moment she wants to tell Varga all she knows about absolutely everything, the places she’s been and the things she’s seen. About Zero Dawn and Elisabet and Faro and everything else. 

“Cryptic.”

“It’s a long story. How did you get this?” Aloy raises a hand and gestures to Varga’s scar.

Varga shrugs. “Got a little too close to a Longleg. I’m not a bad hunter, but I haven’t yet mastered the art of escaping a fight totally unharmed.”

“If you think I escape fights unharmed, you should have seen me at Meridian.” The two of them exchange smiles that are perhaps a little grim, but no less genuine. “I should probably sit down somewhere. I got snow in my boots and the chill is getting hard to ignore.” Varga laughs at this, and escorts her back to some empty seats around the campfire.

When Aloy has switched to less insulated but significantly drier boots and left the wet ones next to the fire to dry, Varga asks, “So what’s next for you? After this?”

“You know, for the first time in a very long time, I have no idea.” Sure, Gaia still has to be repaired, and before that the subordinate functions found and brought back under her control, and she’s sure if she looks there’s a million more things to do, but… “I’m not out of things to do— not by a long shot, but I… it’s not anything urgent, anymore.”

“Almost done being someone?”

“Mhm,” confirms Aloy, and then says, “Elisabet.” 

“Huh?”

“That’s who ‘someone’ was. She and I are similar enough that I can get through doors meant for her. Finish work that was hers.” She rubs her face. “Like I said, it’s a long story.”

“Well, I don’t have any evening plans. And I can hold off on my Longleg fight story, I _guess_.” Varga gives an exaggerated eye roll, and then smiles. When Aloy blinks, she adds, “Does being very vague about things generally get you out of explaining them?”

“Most people don’t actually want to listen.”

“Well, I’m not most people.” Varga tentatively reaches out her hand, placing it on top of Aloy’s. Aloy grabs it and holds tight, almost without noticing. 

Aloy knows that Varga is not most people. And Varga is willing to listen, and waiting, and Aloy wants to tell someone, even if it’s risky, even if they won’t believe her, even if they’ll treat her different after. 

That’s really what it’s about, isn’t it? That it’s so rare now for people to see her as just Aloy that when it happens, it’s safer not to risk it, safer to try not to change that perception so she doesn’t become some mythical figure or freak of nature. 

But she is so, so tired of knowing it alone. Of being isolated in it, held by it like she has one foot in the ancient world and one foot in the present, not belonging anywhere. 

“Alright,” says Aloy, “I guess the story starts a few hundred years ago, with Elisabet Sobek working on a project called Zero Dawn.” 

Once she starts talking, it’s tidal— she finds herself talking and talking and talking. The explanation is erratic, and out of order, with facts mentioned when she remembers them and somewhat badly explained. Varga is a captive audience, and although Aloy is looking for it, she can’t find any signs of boredom or disbelief. 

She talks for a long time. Long enough for the shadows to get long themselves, long enough that she and Varga are put in charge of making sure the fire is out since they’re the last ones at it. 

When she’s finished, there’s a long moment of silence. Then Varga says, “You weren’t kidding about it being a long story.” She takes a breath, and when she speaks again, her voice is slow and halting. “That’s a lot of responsibilities for one person.”

“You’re telling me.” 

Varga laughs, and then tilts her head. “I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.”

“Frankly I find it hard to see where I could’ve given myself any less credit,” says Aloy.

The quip coaxes a quick smile from Varga, who continues, “I mean— okay, just because you’re the only person equipped for a job, doesn’t mean that’s the only job you’re equipped for, ever. Or the only one you’re ‘meant’ for, you know? You describe yourself in a lot of different terms, but never as yourself. You were still Aloy through all that. And maybe what that meant changed and maybe it didn’t, but you’re a person before you’re a pawn or a tool or a copy or divine chosen one or whatever else. I mean, I don’t think you’re any of those things— no offense on the chosen one thing—”

“None taken, trust me.”

“—but even if you were. None of those things meant you stopped… being Aloy.” 

“To be honest with you Varga, I don’t know if I know who that is.”

“Well, lucky for you, it looks like you’ll have plenty of time to figure it out. If your ‘someone’ days are behind you, Aloy is all that’s left.” She smiles. “You could start by figuring out what you want to do now.” 

Aloy is tempted to say she doesn’t know again, because it feels like a big question that deserves a big answer. She doesn’t say that. Varga’s hand is still in hers. So she intertwines their fingers, and looks up, eyebrows raised, part question, part challenge. 

This time it’s Varga who leans in and kisses her, first soft, then almost desperate, like no matter how much it’s not enough. Aloy’s hands curl around the fabric of Varga’s coat while Varga’s are on the small of her back, pulling each other forward, inward. 

Varga pulls back but leaves their faces only inches apart. 

“Glad the message was received,” quips Aloy.

“I’m very perceptive.”

“So. Are you going to tell me the story of the Longleg fight?” Aloy shifts slightly to lean her head on Varga’s shoulder.

Varga laughs. “Sure. So, I was after a Longleg heart, and normally I’d just trade for it, since I prefer the work that comes once you have the parts anyway.” Varga is an animated storyteller, and being her audience is easy, natural. Aloy could listen to her for hours. 

By the time Varga finishes her story— although it’s much shorter than Aloy’s— night has really set in, and the fire is barely holding on, since neither of them have added logs for a long while. When Varga stifles a yawn, the two of them decide to call it a night, getting to their feet and getting ready to head to bed. 

The chatter is idle, but it’s nice. Aloy mentions that tomorrow morning she’s going to see Cyan, and maybe make a few stops along the way to check in with others around the Cut. 

“Then I guess after that I’ll just… see what there is,” she says.

“Well,” says Varga, “If you’re interested, I’m heading back into the Sundom soon. I could use the company. And you can deliver on that promise to show me a cauldron.” 

Aloy smiles. “I’d like that,” she says, and this time, the fact that she’s telling the truth isn’t a surprise at all.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! you can find me on tumblr @tieflinggay or on twitter @elftwink. 
> 
> the distances and timeframe here are approximate at best and mostly based on the order i do the quests in game, which is usually geared up (all of them) > the mountain that fell > the claws beneath > firebreak/the forge of winter > out of the forge > the looming shadow/the face of extinction. i have no idea how far apart things are or how long it would take to travel them in real time please do not @ me about that. im here for Gay and thats it
> 
> title is from "skyline, be mine" by shura


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